


Heaven was made for two

by FandomTrashCompactor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, Childhood Trauma, Dark fic, Dean is a beautiful person, F/M, Foreshadowing, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Murder-Suicide, Possessive Behavior, Prostitute Dean, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Religious Castiel, Serial Killer Castiel, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow To Update, Slut Shaming, Top Castiel, Top!Castiel, TriggerWarning, bottom!Dean, everyone has problems, probably schizophrenic Cas, sassy sammy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrashCompactor/pseuds/FandomTrashCompactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curvaceous black women, sat seriously at a panel, a grieve look veiling her attractive face.</p><p>"Still no word in on the media named, 'Charcoal winged homicides'. A body of a boy was found four-miles off main street. He has yet to be identified, but police have concluded he is indeed a.." The lady gazed at the camera uncomfortably, before shuffling her papers, and resuming her lines.</p><p>"...A  'norm'  That this particular murderer tends to target..." </p><p>Pressing the whiskey to his lips, Dean breathed in the rich, nostalgic aroma of alcohol. Before fixating his gaze back to the screen.</p><p>"...Many religious based symbolisms were found at the crime scene along with the usual marking found drawn around the body."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accidents dont happen accidentally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEAR GOD PLEASE READ THE TAGGS!  
> This is darker than a black out at a night club, just not as dangerous.  
> Oh and Dean/Others is not something that will be to focused on.  
> Just sets that bitter scene this story needs to thrive.  
> THANK YOU FOR READING THIS MY BABIES.

 

 

Pleasure is fleeting, and happiness is so easily snuffed out; Dean knows this well.

As a unknown man thrust his member deeper into Deans body, stifled moans breach his lips. Drugged up sex is all Dean has known for as long as his narcotic numbed mind is allowing. Consent is easily scrambled when under the influence, and Dean attempts to register if what he is feeling is pain or pleasure.

The weight resting above Dean removes its self, leaving Dean sprawled out on the soiled matrass below his strung out mass. Sweat, blood, and cum create a sickening aroma, penetrating his nostrils.

A nasally voice conversed with Deans most recent _partner._ The shuffling of feet, and ragged breath echoed in the dim room.

"I like this one, Alistair." A content voice spoke, fondness slighted with danger stuck in his tone like daggers.

"Looks like he liked you to." Alistair spoke, words whimsically flowing from his mouth.

Agreeing laughs were exchanged before the awaited latch of a door clicked. Dean drew a extended breath before a clammy hand slid down his leg.

"You made a new friend, Dean-o."

A single finger slid up the back of Deans thigh. Swiping at the cocktail of blood, sweat and cum. Once collected, he began rolling it with his thumb and index finger, in a amused manner.

If it was capable, Dean would assume the fetal position. But, due to the colorful array of drugs he had consumed, his body fought him, and proved it impossible.

Two chapped lips pressed against Deans neck. The disgustingly warm touch of Alistair's tongue darted down his back, until reaching the border of Deans back, and ass. Alistair than began to lap at the blood splatted against his behind. Teeth grazed against Deans skin, causing him to flinch, resisting Alistair's touch.

A solid fist slammed against Deans spine. Pain surfaced, leaving Dean gasping under the sudden attack. Green eyes shooting to Alistair, Deans brows furrowed, a hiss could be heard through his clenched teeth.

"Do not disobey _me_ , Dean." Alistair spit. Traces of blood smudged across his cracking lips.

In a grey haze of narcotics, Dean dropped his glare, teeth gnawing into his lip. Replacing the bitter taste of a stranger with his blood. Alistair's calloused hands lifted from Deans bruised flesh.

"You smell like a animal," He paused, scrutinizing eyes dragging up Deans body lazily. "...Next _customer_ in an hour." Alistair's voice was painfully casual.

The brief scratch of leather shoes against shag carpet subsided when a final latch sounded, leaving the room in a mute buzz of silence.

Deans raw mass lay nude on a partially made bed. Fitted sheet no longer tucked, and revealed a bare matrass. Strands of blonde hair hung disorderly over his tawny, moist forehead.

Mind still reeling, Dean attempted to capture himself. Focusing his conscious mind on the warmth of a shower, so with a strained lift, Dean hoisted his body to his knees. Whimpers barley passing his tight pressed lips. Grabbing a stained-oak dresser for stability, Dean raised his body to eye level. Clutching unfocused objects, after objects, Dean managed to the bathroom.

The words " _water, heat, burn, dirty."_ Buzzing in Deans ears like locus, caused him to wince slightly.

Flipping the nozzle to 'Hot', Dean collapsed on the manolium shower floor. The water burnt, it stung like acid, running down his bruised skin, leaving scolding streaks of red. Although, Dean admitted he quite enjoyed it. The pain was what Dean knew well, and rather liked, pain couldn't betray him.

After the boiling shower seemingly sobered him, Dean made his way the bedroom, While a white towel hung leisurely around his waist. Entangling his fingers in the damp blonde hair, he shifted his locks to the side, clearing his vision.

Shuffling to the box TV that sat straight of the grimy queen-bed. Dean flicked the **ON** button, turning his body to the mini-bar. As Dean carefully dripped amber liquid into a short crystal glass, his ears perked to the attention of the news, playing haphazardly in his subconscious.

A curvaceous black women, sat seriously at a panel, a grieve look veiling her attractive face.

"Still no word in on the media named, ' _Charcoal winged homicides'_ _._ A body of a boy was found four-miles off main street. He has yet to be identified, but police have concluded he is indeed a.." The lady gazed at the camera uncomfortably, before shuffling her papers, and resuming her lines.

"...A  ' _norm'_ That this particular murderer tends to target... _"_

Pressing the whiskey to his lips, Dean breathed in the rich, nostalgic aroma of alcohol. Before fixating his gaze back to the screen.

"...Many religious based symbolisms were found at the crime scene along with the usual _marking_ found drawn around the body."

A photograph of a boy with blurred facial features, Lay laxly, spread out along ashen concrete. Although blurred, from what Dean could make out, his expression seemed remarkably serine. His body was mangled, looking as though he was 'man-handled' by the hands of God himself. Dean chuckled to him self, applauding his thoughts, before taking a swig of amber poison.

A similar picture switched, although now far more panned out. Deans lips hung ajar, as whiskey trailed downs his shaved chin. Glazed eyes locked to the screen, glued to the image transferring to Deans pounding brain.

  
_Charcoal wings_ drawn sprouting from the boys shoulders, stretched across the light cement. Dark feathers cascaded over one another, brought forth a level of realism and beauty. Deans hands shook, barely clutching his glass now.

Dean couldn't help but fantasies about his death, and how when he died, to be presented with such beauty. 

Catching his odd thoughts Dean shook his head slightly, lifting the class partially to his plump lips.

"They're all whore's." A caramelized voice vocalized behind him. 

Twisting his head over his bare shoulder, Dean growled, "Crowley."

A man, inches under Dean elegantly strode to the bar, selectively removing an oddly shaped bottle of rum from the cluster. Seamlessly pouring the dark-brown liquid into a crystal glass. He raised his liquor inches from his thin lips, pressing another statement.

"Could be you, love. Fit the job, at leased." Crowley clicked his tongue at the ending of his sentence, taking a hastily swig of his shot.

Dean flickered his eyes to the TV once more, a grimace was visibly veiling Deans features,  Dean murmured,

"Are all the British as _dicky_ as you?" before finishing off the last of alcohol that swished silently at the bottom of his glass.

Unaware of Deans reply, Crowley began to slip off his blazer. Once off, he than began folding it neatly edge of the night stand.

Crowley's facial features twisted at the sight of the bed spread. The sheets strung off the bed, while the comforter was curled in a messy ball.

"These sheets are washed... Correct?" Crowley taken aback, marveled at the bed.

Dean shot a amused looked at Crowley, answering his question with a mere smirk. Dropping his head, Crowley let out an exasperated sigh.

"Marvelous, what will my mistress say once I come home with the 'clap'?" Crowley lowered his behind onto the ruffled bed spread, resting his chin, cuffed in both his palms.

With a humorless laugh Dean shifted his body back to the screen, bitter whiskey still shaking in his hands. He could feel the British _devils_ eyes scan his body. A pleased huff of air flew from Crowley's nostrils.

"Drop the towel, Sweetheart, we haven't got all day."

Cringing slightly, Dean shot the fire-liquid down his throat, once more reminding Dean of pains constant presence. With a heavy sigh, Dean turned his body to conjuring brown eyes. Releasing the iron grasp he had to the towel, it fell to the fake wood flooring with a wet 'thud'.

"Now, now. If you are extra good, ill gift you that cocaine you love so dearly." Crowley's stubby fingers brushed Deans hair gently, his face pushing past Deans personal space. While in any other situation Crowley's lip would be split, cowering below Deans bloodied fist. But, unfortunately, he no longer has the right to such luxuries as ' _personal space'._ Not while in this room at leased.

Dean could taste the blood again.

 

The sent of burnt plastic and cigarette smoke assaulted Deans breathing. The biting chill of winter air nipped at exposed skin, causing spastic shivers to shake the skin. With a deep breathe, Dean inhaled the cold, chapping his throat. He pulled his weight passed many pedestrians swarming the extensively lighted pin-tree.

A deep green giant splattered with white lights, tensile and colorful plastic globes. A virgin white angel sat atop, wings reminding Dean of the photos. The Pine Stood tall, strong front and center of Topeka central.

A shaggy haired boy, collided with Deans mass. A tight-lipped smile shot at Dean before running to his mothers side, clinging to the him of her cotton dress.

As he watched the child swing at his mothers hip, he couldn't help but smile. The boy reminded him of the boy sitting at home, eagerly waiting Deans return.

With this thought, Deans paced quickened, a light smile carved into his cheeks.  

Before long, he was met with the run down apartment, settled atop Joe and Ellen's identical, yet much more maintained home. Reaching to the handle, Dean was met with the door barely ajar. With a new burst of adrenaline Dean swung the door from its hinges.

"Sam!?" Deans eyes darted frantically around the small living space.

"Whoa, Dean, I'm right here." A shaggy haired,  teen boy emerged from around the kitchens corner, oven mites sheathing his hands. Hazel eyes bulged from their sockets in full blown in confusion.

With a stifled sigh, Dean forcefully removed his Canvas jacket, slinging it over a dingy coffee table. Throwing murderous glares at his young brother.

"Sam, do you know how to lock a damn door?" Throwing his body to the sofa, Dean melted into the comfort, straining to keep his angry façade.

Sam twisted his expression, tracing his memories.

"I thought I did lock it." Sam shrugged, swiftly gliding back into he kitchen.

"Well you didn't!" Dean bit back, for no apparent reason other then to have the last word.

A barley audible 'yeah, yeah' could be heard from the kitchen.

The atmosphere and sent of home, pushed Dean to a quick sleep. Before startled awake by his brothers early pubescent voice.

"Dean?" Sam muttered.

Shifting awkwardly in the cushions, Deans lids still pressed together loosened a bit. A single aware "Hmm...?" broke through his laxly parted lips.

"The news..." Sam's voice drops octaves lower, "...Will you be safe?"

Opening his eyes now, Dean lifted his body from the couch, catching his brothers head in his arms. Sam squirmed under is strength. A muffled 'Dean, stop' hissed through Sam's lips.

Pulling his brothers gaze to view, Dean allowed a smile to spread across his lips.

"I'm Dean Winchester." With a wink and a chuckle Dean spoke, " ...When am I not safe?"

A skeptical look smothered Sam's face, before pushing his brother off.

"Yeah, sure." He mocked, before marching to the kitchen once more, face a red shade of frustration .

With a fond smile, Dean resumed his position. Closing his dragging eyes, Dean pictures massive wings, and the faceless man or women behind the morbid beauty.

 

The intense aroma of bacon, and salt snapped Dean from his slumber.

"Dean?" Sam questioned casually, body tucked unseen in the kitchen. As Dean rubbed his eyes sleepily, Sam yelled once more, "Dean!"

This time more aggravated.

"Fuck Sammy, yeah, I'm up." Dean scratched the back of his neck, shambling across the cold floor. "God damn, teenagers and their mood swings..."

"Well, I cant just wait around for you all day Dean, I have school." Sam snapped, hand placed steadily on his hip.

As Dean pulled the coffee to his lips, he breathed a muted chuckled towards his brothers endearing response. Bright yellow eggs scrambled next to two finely burnt strips of meat, tempted Dean, while his stomach rejected any and all food intake. So Dean just sipped his coffee leisurely.

"I'm off..." Sam vocalized, while shoving various papers into a black checkered bag, before stopping and staring at his sleep deprived brother.

"...Be safe." Sam murmured, his tone worried.

Two boots stomped up behind Sam's mass, feminine hands placed atop her thin hips. Blonde hair was pressed messily into a braid, while wispy strands framed her charming face.

"Heya Dean!" Joe chimed, her noes beet red from the cold air.

"Heya Rudolf." Dean mocked, breathing in his coffee with hooded eyes. A taunting smirk painting along his lips.

She gasped dramatically, placing her mittens over her face, "That's no way to talk to a lady!" Her facial features squirmed under her hand.

"Well I don't see a _lady's_ here." Dean mocked snickering at the girl now trembling with anger.

Sam sighed, pulling his back-pack steadily onto his shoulders, "Sorry guys, play times over,". Sam pressed his hands to Joe's upper- back, shuffling her out the door. With a wave, Joe leered at Dean.

"Seya Grandpa!" She stuck out her tongue hastily before grabbing ahold of Sam's wrist, tugging him down the stairs.

Dean eyes widened with disbelief, loudly spitting out the word "Grandpa-!?"

Before he could finish his outburst, the clock chimed from his room, signaling a daily ritual. With swift accuracy, and a exasperated breath Dean swung a ripping jacket over himself, striding lazily to the still opened front door.

 

Winter air nipped at Dean skin. In early mornings the streets were not flooded with faces of strangers.

The skies were still partially dark, excluding the almost _heavenly_ sunrise spreading across the darkness. The bright orange and yellows comforted Dean.

While inhaled the frost and smoke, a slight sent of iron pierced nostrils, grabbing his attention.

A muffled crash echoed from an ally, tucked snuggly between a restaurant, and a bookstore. The alleyways opening  sat vertically of Deans body.

With light feet, Dean glided to view. His vision slightly veiled by the early morning darkness that still looms.

The sight before Dean was extraordinary.

A mangled body lay sprawled along the concrete, ebony wings expanded outward, trailing along the ground effortlessly. But what truly captured Deans attention was the man standing front of the body.

His back was turned to Dean, broad shoulders spread out strong, under coffee colored hair. A stained trench coat, speckled with blood and smudges of coal, ruffled with a slight breeze.

 

In a absurd up way, Dean was both intrigued and disturbed. The situation he had casually entered was rang warning bells clearly in Deans mind. 

"Holy shit..." Dean mumbled, as he traced the wings with his eyes.

With startling speed the man turned his body to Dean, crazed eyes a burning shade of blue probed at Deans very soul. The mans thin lips were pressed tightly against his teeth.

His aggressive posture reminded Dean of when he was a brat, and would corner stray dogs and hassle them until they inevitably escaped, once or twice Dean had been bite by the animal, but never truly learnt his lesson.  

"I suggest you run." The man spoke calmly, voice scrapping along Deans ears. Sounding as though the man had recently gargled nails.

Deans mind had suggested the same, alas, he planned to do no such thing.

Piercing green eyes fell into this mans, minutes on end it felt were filled to the brim of heated stares.

Deans tongue felt oddly heavy, unable to speak.

The mans head tilted slightly, confusion smothering his face, replacing the almost _unhuman_ composer. More or less seemingly anticipating a chase, or harsh words to leave Deans lips.

The childlike expression the man was carrying caused Dean to suppress a chuckle.

Whether it be forgetting, or ignoring Dean spoke,

"God man, If you're going to be the big bad wolf role, work on those puppy faces." Dean was abruptly silenced by the gaze this man was projecting towards him.

A predatory, cannibalistic stare, causing Dean to seal his lips with little to no effort. The silence was chipping away at deans steadily decreasing confidence.

The words Dean allowed to drip from his lips were forgotten and replaced with the single word, "Why?"

The scruffy man chuckled, whipping his black finger tips along the tan fabric. His eyes softened slightly, the threating, spiteful look almost forgotten. A _lmost._

"I am doing the work of God." He stoically spoke, eyes a dull blue. Much like the stare of a shark, menacing, and void of empathy.

"I am smiting those who have soiled their bodies. Those who are no longer children of God, but those who have abandoned God."

He spoke with meaning, as if his words were far beyond a humans ability of understanding.

Dean stared with disbelief, "Then what the hell is with the wings?"

Castiel exposed a gentle smile, before directing his attention to the body he had managed,

"In hopes these sinners will one day reach god." Castiel smiled to Dean with pride, "I am helping them."

Dean bite at his cheek, his eyes raging. "And when the fuck did he ask for you to _smite_ these kids?" Deans voice quivered slightly, fortunately hidden by the deepness of his voice.

"They are no longer children, the innocence God had gifted them is gone with their adultery." The man motioned to the boy laying along the cement.

"They are not children, they are whores, right?" Dean bites out.

Dean could feel his skin prickling with rage, seconds from erupting, he managed to calm himself.

"You know buddy, isn't there that thing in the Bible about _'not doing the work of God'_ , or something?" Dean noticed as the mans brow twitched, and lips pulled into a frown.

Dean couldn't help the grin crawling along his cheeks at the mans surprised reaction. Dean hummed, "You know what this looks like to me?"

Dean took a step in the direction of the stoic man, green eyes burning with rage and mockery.

"It looks like you are just some sick freak who likes to kill male prostitutes," Dean marched closer to the man, arms swinging at his hips.

"Maybe your daddy wasn't to nice, and you found a way to push your fucked up fetishes on saying its 'The work of God'. Or maybe..." The space between them was encroaching slowly, the cold winter air mixing with Deans heated breath.

"You just like the hear them scream."

The stoic façade the man had plastered on his face crumbled at Deans words, with a screamed, "Shut up!" bursting from the mans lungs.

He lunged, tackling Dean to the concrete, he attempted to pin the blonde thrashing underneath him.

Dean wrapped his leg around the mans thigh, twisting awkwardly as the man lifted his grasp from Dean wrist in attempted to grasp his neck.

Once the man lifted his clutches, Deans balled fist struck the mans cheek, feeling as his teeth rattled under the shock.

The man rolled to his side, acting as though he had never been struck.

Dean entangled his fingers in the mans disheveled hair, before landing a punch into his jaw, followed by an identical jab to the bridge of his nose.

The man sprawled out along the ground much like the body, that lay forgotten, feet away from their scuffle.

"You are monster, not Gods hit-man." Dean spit blood, before adjusting his jacket. The man did not reply, just lay silently as jerked spastically.

Grasping the mans collar, Dean spit venom,  "Do you hear me you son of a bitch!?"

Tears traveled down the mans purple cheeks, followed by suppressed whimpers.

Dean could feel as his chest tightened under his skin. "You sure can dish it out, but cant take it, huh?" Dean growled, fabric still clutched in his knuckles.

Suddenly Dean released the man, allowing his mass to crash onto the ground.

"By the way," Dean wiping the blood trailing down his lips,  "I'm a _whore_ to, but I'm sure as hell not going to lay back and take it," Dean now trembling with anger, eyed the man curled atop the concrete,"...and _Definitely_ not from a sick fuck like you."

Shuffling away from the bloody mess Dean had created, he began to quicken his pace before descending into a full on sprint.

The cell phone in his pocket tempted him, a three digit number yelled to be dialed. Alas, Dean couldn't bring himself to.

Cussing under his breath, Dean thought out loud, "I have my own fucking problems...Dammit!"

Looking up at the extravagantly Christmas decorated town central clock. **4:50 AM**

"Fuck." Dean breathed in before darting down the partially empty road.

 

  
____

 

 

Castiels mind was reeling, swirling with pain and discomfort. In fact, his last memory of such discomfort had been blurred with time.

Clutching his rib cage, Castiel hoisted himself up.

A dull ache beamed from his jaw. Although in this moment, Castiel was far more concerned with his situation.

He could faintly hear the chattering of voices, the passing of vehicles. Castiel had to leave, his time here was to long spent.

Red veiled his vision, as voices commanded him.

" _Run Castiel_."

" _Run my brother."_

_" **Run Castiel."**_

With this Castiel exploded into a wobbling jog.

After time, Castiel had hardly an idea of how far he ran, he allowed his body to slump behind a restaurant he recalled being a mile or so from where he had began his sprint.

Removing the cellphone from his trench coat, Castiel hit 'redial' and pressed the phone steadily to his ear, hand shaking with either fear or pain.

"Castiel? I have many appointments, please tell me why you are late?" The feminine voice exclaimed, frustration audibly detectable.

"Anna I was mugged. Can you come pick me up?" Castiel, had to lie.

"Where are you Castiel?" Her voice dropping in pitch, a physiologists attempt to keep her patient calm.

"1718 Skiver ave." Castiel sighed, "I'm behind Masonries Italian restaurant."

"Be there soon, Castiel." Her voice was sweet, reminding Castiel of cotton candy.

"Thank you, Anna."

All Castiel was capable of in this moment was to wait. Although, waiting has never been his strong suit.

For a man such as Castiel, His situation was flesh marring.

He had been seen, By a man with the eyes of emeralds. So clear, his soul was almost visible.

Although the man had seen Castiel, he had no worry. God would protect his loyal son, in a time of need.

The soft hum of tiers against freshly laid asphalt directed Castiels attention to a silver Toyota. A women, with fiery hair exited her vehicle swiftly.

The pitter of heels encroaching to Castiels resting place was echoing in his ears.

"Anna..." Castiel managed to speaks.

She replied with soft hushes, and gentle touches.

Castiel wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they swayed to the passenger seat.

 

The car drove smoothly down the freeway, Trees pasted in a hazed blur. Castiel recalled what the man had told him, how he himself was that of a _whore_.

Although, Castiel had to wonder how such a magnificent soul could belong to such ugliness, and how a mere human could possess the eyes of an angel.

 

Castiel was abruptly awakened by Anna's warm hands lifting him from his seat, then walking him to her office. 

Once inside, Castiel was sat against a leather love seat, pressed firmly against a virgin white wall, lined with stripes of floral wallpaper.

The aroma of lavender and vanilla hung in the air, more or less, giving Castiel a reason to breathe in.

"I have spoken to the police, unfortunately there is nothing they can do at the moment." She sighed, lowering herself to a expensive office chair.

"Its obvious you are extremely uncomfortable Castiel, our appointment can wait." Anna earnestly smiles at Castiel, nude lip stick complimenting her skin nicely.

"Anna," Castiel pleaded sitting up straight, signaling he was capable of keeping their appointment.

"I am not one to break promises, please, Anna."

With long looks and an exasperated sigh, She turned to her filling cabinet, removing a creased file, marked with Castiels mothers maiden name. 

"Okay, Castiel, I'm going to need you to tell me what you remember of your mothers death." Anna's voice was commanding yet compassionate.

With a solemn nod, Castiel opened his mouth and allowed uttered words to escape his lips,

"Chuck was a terrible, vile man." Castiel spit, "Mother and I's lives was separated from his needs, for his needs consisted of simply alcohol and _prostitutes_."

Anna nodded in acknowledgement before charting quick paced movements on her paper.

Castiel breathed in, allowing shaking breathes to flow from his lungs,

"Mother an I had learnt that  _that man_  was leaving mother, for a male prostitute he had apparently  _fell_ for. In a fit of rage, mother had than attacked him."

Castiel fiddled with his thumbs, tracing the lines along his fingers.

"I remember her cry when he had sunk that blade into her chest. It truly felt as though I had witnessed the death of an angel."

Castiel bit the soft flesh of his cheek, distracting himself from the tears welling in his eyes.

"That man, and his _filthy whore_ stole my dear mothers life."

Anna's lips parted, "Castiel, why do you not refer to Chuck as your father?" She questioned.

Castiel gazed at the nothingness of the wooden floor below his grimy dress shoes, before raising his head to the ceiling.

"Because Anna, Chuck was never my father; My father is God."

 Anna nodded once before standing from her chair, "Thank you Castiel, you were very open today." She smiled slightly, taking Castiels hand in her palm, giving him a comforting shake.

"Let me take you home, Castiel."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Dear God, Its Dean Winchester!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot about this story.  
> So much mystery in it as well its almost overwhelming.  
> ANYWAYS! Still un-beta...-ed.  
> Thank you!

"You're late."

Bobby spit, the oil packed under his broken fingernails gets wiped across his denim jeans.

"Fuck, I know Bobby,..."

Dean considered confessing what _hell_ he just paid witness too, but those tax-time dark circles hanging low under Bobby's drooping eyes made a simple 'sorry' seemed more appealing.

"...I ran into a bit of trouble down-town."

The older man clicked his tongue in irritation. "Dammit boy, Use those extra jobs to buy a gun or somethin'." Shifting awkwardly, he tugged this base-ball cap from his eyes.

"You know, for Sam too."

Dean could feel the smile spread across his lips as Bobby's browns furrowed in frustration.

"Now, don't think I'm some softy. I'll drag your butt to hell if you are late again."

Slipping his check-out card from its slot, Dean than tugged into his oil coated trousers, waving brief understanding to his boss.

"Yeah, Yeah, Bobby that's what you said last time."

Sliding out of opened entrance the man yelled, "And I still mean it!", as the door sounded shut behind him.

Dean rested his forehead on the cool surface of his locker. Counting the dents and scratches coating the blue paint.

Dean could now feel the rock resting in his chest sink to his belly, dragging him to the ground along with it. The panic just now began to set in, for the second time in his life, he saw someone die.

Just this time, he was only the witness.

 

________________

 

"Anna, Thank you."

Castiel hummed as he lifted himself from her car.

The walk-way was paved with colorful stones and neatly potted and trimmed plants. A home seemingly stolen from the cover of one of the many magazines his mother would often hide from Chuck.

The insides were neat, barely lived-in in fact. The walls were bare, and the air smelt of paint and clean lemon.

As he slinked down the hall, he could feel his eyes-lids dragging to his cheeks. Flinging open the stained oak door, it exposed a room, one of which looked as if it belonged to someone. Unlike the most of his 'home'.

The walls were littered with the posters of irrelevant oldie bands, and motivational posters. The books were strung virtually everywhere but the actual bookshelf.

With a crack of the box-spring Castiel threw his body onto the lined sheets.

With a sigh he tucked his fingers into the pocket of his trench-coat, pulling out his phone. He brought the screen to his face and glared at the screen.

"No work for me today."

Castiel hissed as he rolled to his side. Squeezing the blue-bruised skin under his hands.

The past few hours have been some of the most bizarre, due to the hands of a man. A rather self-righteous one of most, but at same beautiful.

He could imagine trailing his hands along speckled skin, dragging blunt nails across his form marking him in 10 streaks of red. The soft pulse resonating in the pit of his stomach sung out for relief.

Castiel draped his forearm over his eyes, as he drifted his fingertips down his exposed ribcage.

His fingers stopped at his waist-band, they shake slightly as Castiel has a revelation.

"I'm a whore too!"

The emerald-eyed man screams at him from his memories, scratching and bites his way from Castiels mouth in a dramatic gasp. He flings his body into the fetal position.

Suddenly the hand that was seconds from pleasuring was now painfully entangled in his own hair. Pulling and dragging his head to his knee-caps.

In low huffs Castiel allowed streams of salted-tears to breach his ducts, wetting his bed for the first time in years. His throat closed around itself, trying to swallow something that was not there.

Never once has Castiel compared himself to Chuck, never once had he thought he understood.

Until now.

 

________

 

Dean decided earlier due to recent events, he'd take the home buss.

The smell of chewing Tabaco and urine made the thought of witnessing another murder seem like Christmas day. Not to mention the oddly damp seat he was now sitting in.

Once off, Dean nearly skipped up the apartment stairs.

Slipping in the key, Dean twisted the nob, pull the door to himself as he stepped inside.

"Oh god Dean!" Sam squealed.

Dean pulled back unsure of what to do in reaction to his brother.

Sam clutched Deans sleeve, as his crazed eyes studied his brother.

"Did you see anything weird on your way to work?"

Dean could feel the bile rising, he shook his head casually trying to pull his coat from his brothers grasp.

"Why do you ask, Sammy?"

Sam sighed releasing his brothers before exasperatedly dropping to the love-seat. the boy pinch the bridge of his nose, and creased his brow. The face Sam wore did not fit that of a 12 year old and it made Deans heart ache painfully.

"There was a new body found..."

"Oh really?" Dean hummed in response folding his jacket on the coffee table.

"Yeah, right on your way to work too." Sam eyed Dean.

"Yeah, well I took the buss this morning." Dean lied.

He could see the tensed muscles in Sam go limp under relief. Before tensing up again.

"Hey,..."

Sam peered down at Deans knuckles.

"Did you get into a fight?" Sam questioned hand extending to his brothers.

Pulling back Dean bit at his brother, "God damn Sam, knock it off, I'm fine."

"Sorry Dean, I just..." Sam's hazel eyes dropped to his feet as the nervously overlapped each other.

Dean huffed, rolling his shoulder blades. Dean than bent to Sam's level and flicked him center of his fore-head.

Sam rubbed his head in disbelief, as he glared up at Dean. His lips parting in preparation of either curses or witty remarks, but never both at once.

Dean smiled at his kid brother.

"I've never liked interviews Sam."

The boy puffed his cheeks in response. tucking his thighs closer to his chest.

"So what's up with you, was school fun?"

Sam suddenly perked, making his way across the room. Ripping a crinkled paper from his checkered bag, marked in red pen 'A-'.

"I could have got a A+ but-..."

Dean ripped the paper from Sam's hands before holding it in front of his eyes. 

"An A is an A,..."

waving it now in front of Sam's face, Dean sung,

"And an A is awesome."

Sam smiled at his brother, a slight blush creeping across the apples of his cheeks.

"And for geography the teacher didn't show up, so for like, 30 minutes we just sat there until Mrs. Harrison asked us where he was."

Dean cocked his head.

"Really? What happened?"

Sam slipped his paper back into his binder.

"Well the principle came in and had us all free-read. Because apparently he didn't call in sick or make plans with a substitute." 

Dean laughed before tilting his head back.

"Sounds like a grade A- douche."

Sam copied his brothers action, tilting his head back as well. Before shutting his eyes to share a well-needed laugh with Dean.

"Oh you have no idea."

 

 


End file.
